


I was used to feeling like I was never gonna see myself at the finish line

by orphan_account



Category: GP2 Series RPF
Genre: M/M, confused sexual relationships, crackfic innit, good grief have i actually written something below explicit, that rating didn't last, that rating won't last, wanking, wedding fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-07 12:08:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7714396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joining all the cool kids in making a home for all my GP2 fic because CERTAIN PEOPLE keep making me write it. I'll add tags as I go. </p><p>(title from Tegan & Sara's I'm Not Your Hero because gay feels and things)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. we built ourselves a shelter (you will always be my baby) - mitchem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is profoundly strange and I fully blame valentineskid, who makes important but brain-ruining edits. Basically Mitch and Artem get married and Mitch wears a wonderful dress. What.
> 
> Title for this from One Life Stand by Hot Chip

Artem fiddles with his cuff nervously, knowing he’s just doing what every single groom does, having exactly the same nerves about getting jilted, the excitement to see his soon-to-be husband, the knowledge all eyes are only on him for a few more minutes.

Probably. Assuming Mitch is turning up, which he almost certainly is. He’d definitely been quite enthusiastic about this, about picking everything perfectly, kissing away all of Artem’s stress about which of his aunts could sit where. He’d never actually thought about the fact there’d be this bit where Mitch _wasn’t_ there and he’d have to suffer through the stares and nerves by himself.

He swallow, feeling Sergey sling an arm around him, reassuringly, “You know how long he spends on his hair.”

\------

This had seemed like such a great idea. At first he’d joked about it, insisting that because Artem was the one who’d got down on knee, Mitch was the bride and he was going to get a fabulous dress.

Then somewhere in the flurry of organisation, in trying to calm down his fiancee enough to actually pick a date and a place, he’d ended up looking at hundreds of wedding blogs. Who even knew what a centrepiece was? And somewhere in all the hundreds of thousands of beautiful, sunset-lit photos the idea had formed.

He’d ended up pondering fucking _flower language,_ arranging 50 forget-me-not-crowned cactii for the tables, picking a flavour of _fucking candles_ and who knew there were _this many types of tablecloth_ and god so help him he’d got a fucking _Pinterest,_ made Artem make one too so he had a soft way to actually communicate his ideas to Mitch. It had been a lot - and so worth it. So, so worth it.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, he’d found himself standing in a ludicrously high-end designer dress shop with Mark, his mentor having insisted he wanted to buy Mitch’s suit. Then said nothing more than a “Sure, alright, mate” when Mitch had said he wasn’t sure it was a suit he actually wanted.

It was stupid - he knows he looks amazing in suits, that he’d bowl over Artem just as much if he’d just headed to Hugo Boss and taken advantage of Mark’s credit limit. But he’d wanted to at least _try_ one - mostly trolling himself, until he’d actually got his hands on the fabrics, let himself seriously pick something to wear.

Mark hadn’t questioned him, had helped him pick things out when he worked out what Mitch was after, even as Mitch himself worked it out. Something surprisingly delicate, lace barely clinging to mesh across his shoulders, enclosed down his right sleeve, barely capped on the left. He’d had it adjusted so it wasn’t trying to fit across breasts, the assistants too used to demanding, wealthy clients to ever ask what on earth he was thinking.

There was nothing especially feminine about it, the asymmetry making it almost like a very fancy toga, draped over his shoulders and pulled into his hips almost like a race suit. It’s shot through with darker darts of silk, the short train a gradient from antique to chocolate lace, highlights all emphasising his shape, matching the spikes of his dark hair, making it clear it’s for _Mitch,_ not an accident.

He smooths his hands over the fabric - it’s beautiful, on him. It’s an extraordinary look - he’s never thought of himself as ethereal but between the bright white of the lace and the deep caramel of his skin, it’s like he’s glowing. The silk flows evenly down him, just enough stucture at the hips to not actually outline his cock (and he now regrets insisting the tailor left _“just a hint, c’mon”)_ but the way it falls is undeniably right. Tailored almost like a suit that’s unravelled itself, become this flowing thing.

“You look amazing, Mitch.” Alex and Sean are hovering, Sean’s hand his shoulder. They’ve got smart blue suits on, white shirts open-necked, with sprays of white stock flowers in their buttonholes. He inwardly curses picking two giants as groomsboys, instead of anyone he could panic and steal the clothes off now.

“Mitch, come on, he’ll have a nervous breakdown if you’re late,” Alex is as blunt as always but he’s right. It’s not like Mitch has a suit he can panic and change into now - he’s got this because he _likes_ it. Likes the idea of looking extraordinary, not like they could be at an awards show or a fancy dinner or any of the other 2 million things they went to when they were pretending not to be together.

“You know London traffic, dude,” Sean’s hand smooths over Mitch’s shoulder, “He’s gonna swoon, stop being vain and go marry him.”

That finally gets Mitch to move, to stop fiddling with the amulet at his neck, smooth over the swirl of Swarovski crystal at his own hip one last time. Men don’t normally get to wear something like this, to look this… standout, is the only word he can think of, gathering the skirt over his trainers to get in the car.

“Honestly, Mitch - only you would do this,” Alex is smiling at him, from the backwards-facing seat of the cab; they’d all agreed nerve-steadying drinks beforehand meant _no one_ was driving today, “that’s why it’s great. He loves you, he’s going to love this.”

“You look hot. Maybe it’ll inspire Tonio,” Sean says wistfully, rubbing Mitch’s knee. “Artem’s a lucky guy.”

Mitch really hopes he feels that way when he sees Mitch walk down the aisle.

\------

“Till death do us part.”

Artem is amazed his voice holds, although he can’t stop his hands shaking as Sergey hands him the ring, takes Mitch’s hand in his.

Mitch is _beautiful._ Artem had always thought so, of course - since long before they’d ever even kissed, before he’d ever even worked out that staring at his teammate and thinking about how incredible he looked was perhaps not 100% heterosexual. And Mitch had joked incessantly about wearing a dress but Artem didn’t think he _actually would._

It curls over Mitch’s body, tight and tailored, silk drapes weaving in and out of bejewelled lace and gauze across his torso, falling over Mitch’s hips and lower body elegantly, tiny tailoring details keeping it to the shape of his muscled body. There’s no veil but a sort of… silk cape flows down Mitch’s back, which is otherwise naked apart from the gauze and lace, every detail so small, so perfectly judged that it stops just this side of elaborate, the white looking unfussy and clean, so very _Mitch_.

It’s not that he’s got some sort of fetish for it - he didn’t fantasise about Mitch wearing a dress for him, although he may now never be able to get it out of his brain. But that Mitch picked it, picked something so perfect for _their wedding._ Artem’s burning with the need to kiss him, hoping Mitch can really see how much Artem’s heart is swelling as he gazes down into his new husband’s eyes, slipping the plain gold band onto Mitch’s finger.

For a second he thinks something’s wrong with his vision, then realises he’s just tearing up as he looks at the two rings on Mitch’s hand - the ludicrous, showy yellow diamond Artem had proposed to him with because it was so _Mitch,_ loud and ridiculous. And the plain gold band that matches the one Mitch is about to put on him, making it official.

Artem can’t resist stroking Mitch’s arm, unable to lose the contact now they have it, their hands entwining as Mitch slips the ring onto his finger.

He doesn’t even hear what the registrar says, after that, just waiting for her to _stop talking_ so Artem can kiss his husband. Mitch is looking at him with bright, shining eyes and Artem so desperately wants him in his arms, so Mitch can feel how breathless Artem is as he kisses him.

And then when the moment comes, he’s almost frozen - he wants to pull Mitch towards him but he doesn’t want to mess it up, letting Mitch come to him, press up against Artem and grip his jaw to kiss him. It’s sweet and rough at the same time and Artem dimly hears a lot of sniffling and gasps, suggesting the emotions he’s feeling may have spread into the crowd.

Except they can’t, because no one else is holding Mitch, feeling the soft shuffle of silk against them as Mitch presses in.

They break the kiss to stare at each other, “Love you, ‘Tem.”

\-------

He can’t resist it, finally, when they get to the door of their suite, his jacket long gone and both their hair disarrayed, Mitch holding a half-drunk bottle of champagne they definitely don’t need.

Both of them are laughing as he hooks his arm under Mitch’s knees, hauling the smaller man to his chest. Then Mitch curls his hand against Artem’s neck and some intensity curls in his chest, makes him lay Mitch down gently on the bed, stroke over the dress reverently.

“You are the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen, Mitch Evans.”

“The dress comes off, ‘Tem.” Mitch is beaming up at him, “Come here and fuck your husband.”  



	2. something in my heart is loose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOORAY THIS TRASH IS DONE I'M FREE
> 
> Huge thanks as always to valentineskid and princessrosberg for listening to me howl at them down Tumblr messenger.

Mitch is doing fine, actually. He’s moved into Sean and Tonio’s box room, which is nice because there’s always someone to go to the gym with and he was bored of Kensington.

Honestly, all those beautiful, rich young people are very tedious and if he feels a bit like he might die every time he hears an Eton accent then, well, that’s just because he hates horse racing and opera and has actual standards about rugby.

And Alex can do exactly what he likes. It’s fine. Mitch is thrilled for him getting podiums and hanging around poolsides with Pierre, that’s lovely. If Mitch has to get a mouthguard to stop him grinding his teeth at night then that’s just because he’s very dutiful about his dental health.

He’s never had that many possessions in the UK, racing shit aside and the team mostly look after that. So it’s _fine_ that he’s got a single bed sandwiched into what he strongly suspects is a converted airing cupboard. He will definitely sort out finding somewhere proper really soon.

If not he _could_ always move back into the cottage at Mark’s. If he, you know, wanted to admit a very comfortable sort of defeat and get looked after. Which he _doesn’t need_ because the most significant relationship he’s ever had breaking down is not bothering him at all.

He just misses the sex. The sex was very good, it’s totally legitimate to regret not getting good sex, like, all the time. To miss Alex wrestling him onto the bed, letting Mitch fight him for dominance until he’d pin Mitch down and give him what he wanted, tongueing at his hole until Mitch was whining and shouting like he’d just won a fucking race. Giving him a fucking champion shag, getting all intense and loving just before they both came.

Ugh. Yeah, he misses that. That’s natural, he’s a young man with needs. He can’t be expected not to want a mindblowing orgasm occasionally and it’s tough knowing there’s someone who knows how to get him off and then kiss him senseless and hold him and do that dirty chuckle while Alex stroked Mitch’s hair and they luxuriated in feeling good together.

Ok, he may slightly miss aspects of Alex other than his dick. But he’s damned if he’s going to admit that while he’s pleading with his brain to go to sleep so he can stop hearing Antonio quietly whine Sean’s name. It’s breathy and panting and Mitch tries not to think too hard about what Sean must be doing with his mouth that Mitch can’t hear him as well.

He doesn’t want to stop them having sex in their own flat - he’s super grateful to have been adopted by his teammates, these last couple of weeks and he _hates_ imposing so he’s never going to _tell_ them he can hear everything through the wall but. He can hear _everything_ through the wall.

It’s hard not to strain his ears, see if he can hear the wet noises of Sean’s mouth on Tonio - it’s natural curiosity and frustrated arousal but it’s also wrong as hell. They’re his friends and they’re like, sickeningly in love with each other in such an innocent, pure way where they’re always trying to draw out each other’s happiness.

He throws the pillow over his head instead, rolls over onto his front and sticks a hand down his own pants - fuck being the only person with an unattended boner in this flat, he can sort himself out.

He’s just indulging in a nice memory of Alex fucking him like this, face down on the bed, making Mitch come against the sheets and then lick it off Alex’s fingers when he nearly falls out of the fucking bed, if the next wall wasn’t so close. There’s a massive thud and for a second he thought his bed must be collapsing, then that the world was ending, then hears himself whine pathetically into the mattress when he realises _they are fucking against the wall._

Mitch tries _really_ hard not to imagine Sean holding Tonio up, Tonio’s back against the wall while Sean pounds him but it’s really difficult when he can fucking hear every detail. Each thrust judders the wall and even giving up on his wank and pulling the pillow down over his ears does nothing to dull the vibrations through his mattress.

He can hear every time Antonio scrabbles against the wall, moans and cries out garbled Italian and Indonesian and Sean’s name, again and again. Who the hell knew Giovinazzi was so loud?

Mitch might as well be involved, given every time the wall moves his mattress jogs and helpfully nudges his dick. But _somehow_ hearing Sean and Antonio going at it with wild, loving abandon has kind of killed his boner with a bolt of unbearable, lonely sadness.

He tries to wriggle as far away from the wall as he can get - he’d get up and go and hide in the lounge but they’d hear the door and then he’d put them off and he _really_ doesn’t want to be That Miserable Guy who brings everyone down. He’s Mitch Evans, he fucking _taught_ half the grid to give head, he can take it.

Antonio’s babble gets very brokenly affirmative for a few seconds, punctuated by some particularly forceful jolts to the mattress and then a long, keened cry of Sean’s name. Well, at least it’s over. And it sounded like they had a really good time, so that’s great. Absolutely fantastic, really. He’s glad they’re really happy.

He genuinely is - Sean and Antonio are so great, they deserve success and love and all that shit. It’s not their fault Mitch is so heartbroken he feels physically wounded listening to them tell each other they’re amazing, that they love each other, clearly sharing breathless kisses.

He’d distract himself with his phone but he’d probably just be met by more photos of Alex and Pierre and he has a limit. He doesn’t really know if they’re fucking - really doesn’t want to, tries to stop himself looking for clues that they are - but he misses being that close to Alex, talking to him every day.

Alex would’ve been the one he texted when he felt this crap, Ace would’ve made him laugh about it, teased him about being pervy enough to try and get off while they were fucking next door. And then sexted him through a legendary session of filthy masturbation, sent him a goodnight text.

He vaguely regrets their agreement to delete all their texts, so he can’t even find some archive filth. Even if it would’ve only made him feel shitty straight afterwards it probably would have been enough to get him to sleep instead of staring at the wall.

Mitch hears Sean and Tonio move away from the wall, presumably snuggle up in Sean’s bed. He misses being held, holding Alex - it’s stupid, cuddling is uncomfortable and sweaty and you never get a decent night’s sleep. Until you get used to it and suddenly having your own space wakes you up.

He stuffs his hand back down his pants, almost for some pathetic comfort and falls asleep miserably before he can even make himself come.

\------

Ollie. He could go and see Ollie for a bit. That would be a nice break - right out of London, get some Northern fresh air and work everything out of his system. Except apparently Ollie’s in Moscow for some fucking reason.

It takes about four hours for him to realise that it’s _literally_ a fucking reason when he spots Ollie on Sergey’s Instagram. He needs to get off that fucking website. Or just get off, full stop, with anyone. Someone has to have a dick no one’s currently riding.

He’d thought about calling Carlos for a revisit of the good old times but there’s no way the romantic bastard isn’t rolling around Monaco getting swept of his feet by bloody Dany. Again, he wishes them every happiness and to never have to look at them gazing into each other’s eyes ever.

Instead he’s been grumping around the shops of Oxford Street, getting jostled by tourists whilst he vaguely thought about buying something to make him look fucking _hot_ and instead gave himself a dehydration headache. This is shitty and stupid.

Pushing open the door to the flat, he’s met with a surprised “NO!” and some shuffling, nowhere near quick enough to stop him seeing Sean and Antonio very naked and entangled on the sofa. For fuck’s _sake._

He slams the door shut again as fast as he can, slumps down it to sit in the hallway and shouts out what he hopes is a jovial “Carry on!”

At least the wood of the external door is thick enough that he can only slightly hear them, rather than the graphic proximity of last night. And he can’t help his dick is twitching to attention from the glimpse he got of Sean on top of Antonio - they’re hot and they clearly have amazing sex. It’s not fair.

He eyes the stairs slightly warily. The top landing only leads to their flat and there’s no reason anyone else should come up here, so why the fuck not compound his sad little life with a nice stairwell wank?

Mitch gets his hand into his shorts, tips his head back against the door and closes his eyes, gives his dick an almost experimental squeeze, like he’s trying to reassure it. He wants nothing more than for some handsome - oh, for fuck’s sake, why lie to himself, he wants _Alex_ to come tearing up the stairs, scoop him off the floor, shove him against the wall and fuck him senseless.

Lex would do his rough but romantic thing, pressing Mitch against the cool stone of the wall and kissing him while Alex jerked him off in just the way he likes, Lex’s hand round his dick with his thumb on the head. He never messed around with hand jobs, never teased Mitch, just got him off while he was kissing him fiercely and teasing Mitch’s nipples with his spare hand.

Mitch bites his own lip to stifle a whine - his own hand feels nothing like Alex’s, even if he is pretty fucking expert at getting himself off. He can’t help wondering how Alex does Pierre, if the Frenchman climbs into his lap, all wound-up control and makes Alex lose it while he’s rubbing their cocks together, making them come in perfect, calculated synchrony.

He feels the wetness hit his hand as he imagines Alex throwing his head back, under Pierre, both of them coming on Alex’s chest. Which is comfortably the most fucked up thing he’s ever wanked over, even in a long litany of perversions.

And now he has a handful of spunk in a stairwell. Mitch wipes it on the doormat, might as well mark his spot while he’s waiting to find out how much longer Sean’s stamina is than his.

\------

He goes for a run with Artem on the race Thursday. Which is great, because they know each other so well and Artem is naturally gentle enough that he can go easy on roasting Mitch’s broken heart without it being blatantly obvious he is.

Turns out he’s coping even less well than he expected with seeing Alex again. It’s perfectly fine - they hugged, they had a chat about everything other than _them_ and Mitch found out exactly how sad he could feel while discussing Ricciardo drinking out of a shoe.

He doesn’t know if he wants a sad fuck and for Alex to take him back, which he’s very dubious his pride can deal with or for Alex to just… minorly injure himself in some non-permanently damaging way that means he has to go the fuck away for the weekend. Preferably taking Pierre with him.

They are totally fucking, Mitch has never seen Pierre so smugly content. He’s got that ‘I’m getting such good sex I’m surprised I can still walk’ glow. And Ace is being all subtly protective of him in that annoying posh, noble way he used to do with Mitch. Which was endearing, whereas this is just obnoxious.

Being around people experiencing contentment and satisfaction with life is very bad for him, currently. He can manage about half an hour before he falls into such a dark mood he not only can’t stand everyone else but also finds himself fucking unbearable.

Fortunately, Artem’s totally miserable too after breaking up with his stupid _girlfriend_ and they’re both having a pretty torrid season so they can be completely dissatisfied with the events unfolding around them together. And hey, maybe he could convince Artem that the solution was _definitely_ experimenting with his sexuality and they could have a sickening romance of their own.

It’s a rather tempting prospect, watching Artem tip water over his head as he pants his way through the post-run cool down. They’re both unpleasantly sweaty in the unexpected Belgian heatwave, which is doing nothing for Mitch’s frustrated libido. He used to get dick _all the time,_ why’s everyone suddenly coupled up?

The two years he was with Lex have clearly made the grid lazy, this is unacceptably poor standards of slutting it up. This is GP2, there should be blow jobs everywhere.

Annoyingly, there kind of are - just not with Mitch involved. He’d walked in on Ollie and Sergey in a pretty dishevelled state early, clearly having sprung apart rapidly, saliva still on their lips and hair standing on end. And Marciello and Malija, of all people, had been making out pretty passionately against the tyre wall. Sean and Antonio were as wrapped up in each other as ever and if Mitch needed to torture himself at any point then he was pretty sure he could interrupt Alex and Pierre at least eye-fucking the hell out of each other.

At least Artem’s not getting any, either. Albeit the options for straight encounters are fairly nonexistent but Mitch’ll take whatever shared misery he can get.

“You heading back?” Artem flicks the last of his bottle of water over Mitch, which is about the most sexual thing that’s happened to him in over a month.

“Ugh. I mean - yeah, I guess. But there’ll probably be people experiencing joy there,” Mitch can already feel his jaw clenching.

Artem pulls a similarly unhappy face, “Fuck them all.”

“I’m trying mate, I’m bloody trying,” Mitch feels himself sigh deeply, “But they’re all too busy sucking each other’s faces off. It’s disgusting.”

“Just left us out,” Artem looks pathetically unhappy. “I really miss her and then they’re like -” the Russian makes a wavey hand gesture “- fucking everywhere.”

“At least she isn’t eye-fucking Pierre in front of you, dude.” Mitch hugs himself, despite the heat, then finds himself enveloped in a sweaty ex-teammate as Artem slightly awkwardly cuddles him.

Slightly awkward is definitely better than nothing, however, so Mitch wraps his arms around Artem’s waist, rests his head against the Russian’s shoulder as they press together. They used to hug a lot, so it’s comfortable enough to settle back into and even just platonic contact feels good, calming.

“I miss you.”

It’s a bit of an odd thing for Artem to say, maybe but Mitch gets what he means. When they were teammates they’d had that particular sort of closeness that he almost has with Sean, if his bond with Antonio wasn’t so much deeper. Sleeping next to each other on planes, cuddling after bad races, celebrating together after good ones. It’s the kind of closeness that takes the edge off ever getting lonely.

Of course, he’d been with Alex back then - and Artem had been going out with Ekaterina, so it was all very innocent and brotherly. This feels slightly different, a tension in both of their bodies, all the annoyance and loneliness thrumming through them.

Mitch’s seduction methods are mostly about taking one for the team in terms of boldness, so he presses closer, rubbing his left thumb over Artem’s hip. He’s a little surprised that Artem goes along with him, bringing a hand up to thread his fingers through Mitch’s hair.

Mitch nearly whines in pleasure - Alex used to stroke his hair all the time, he misses it desperately. He’s sure Artem knows what he’s doing - he’d seen Alex cuddle Mitch often enough. Mitch tries to wind himself into Artem, tuck himself against him the way Ekaterina did, even if he’s manifestly a different shape, wrapping a hand over Artem’s shoulder, hanging off him a little.

Artem makes a little appreciative noise, strokes Mitch more. Mitch’s mouth is against Artem’s jaw, they’re moving against each other so gently they’re almost swaying and when Artem finally moves to kiss him, it’s tender, sweet.

Mitch feels a thrill of something run through him, as Artem’s hand runs down his spine. He kisses back more fiercely, trying to remember the way Ekaterina used to wrap her arms around Artem’s neck as the Russian tugs on Mitch’s hair, the way Alex used to.

Artem pulls Mitch to him, grabbing his arse and pushing their crotches together. Mitch is half-hard, starved of affection for too long and weak to the way Artem’s pushing his buttons. Mitch whines against Artem’s mouth and licks at his lips, trails a hand down between them to tease at Artem’s crotch.

A second later, Artem pulls back. He gently strokes the back of his hand down Mitch’s jaw, with an - _oh, arse -_ apologetic smile. “Sorry, it’s your stubble. I… it was good. But I’m,” Artem does another wavy hand gesture, this one much more rueful, “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, I know,” Mitch sighs against him, shifts to turn the embrace back into manly hugging, “Thanks for trying.”

“I’m sorry,” Artem hugs him closer again, fierce in a different way. “It would’ve been really nice.”

Mitch sighs again, he kind of knew it wouldn’t be that simple but it had been a very pleasant, if memory-troubling minute or so. “I know, dude.”

He kisses Artem’s neck, pacifying and affectionate, feels his ex-teammate nuzzle his hair. “Can we carry on hugging? Don’t judge me.”

“No way.” Artem sounds a bit choked, clutching Mitch to him, “We’re so fucked.”

\-------

Well, everything about the weekend was shit so he supposes he should have expected to find himself in an Italian hotel that used the same internal wall constructors as Sean and Antonio’s flat.

At least this way he can roll off his bed and head to the couch to try and avoid the noise of Sean getting what sounds like a really excellent blow job. He grabs his phone and sticks his earphones as far into his ears as seems reasonably safe for retaining some hearing, tries to find some music that’s both indulgently mopey enough to let him have a self-pitying wank to it and loud enough to be effective barrier protection.

Just as he’s queuing up every Hot Chip song he’s ever cried to, he gets a text from Artem-

_Did u know Sergey and Olie? (_

Mitch almost laughs because Artem’s grasp on English is 200 times better than Mitch’s Russian but quite adorable.

_Yeah, I think that’s been going on for awhile._

_I did not think??? Everyon but us. ( ( (_

Mitch does laugh at that. It feels a lot better, having someone to sympathise with.

_Oh well, I can always treat myself to a wank to the sounds of Sean getting blown._

_U to? Lol )_

Mitch pauses for a second. This is a return to line-crossing that he’s really not sure about Artem’s comfort level with. But he’d been clear when things went too weird for him that morning, so Mitch reckons he can push it slightly.

_Sad Hotel Wank Club mate. In an unhappily committed relationship with my hand._

_You ever just wish someone else would get you off?_

There’s an almost worrying pause and Mitch finds himself holding his breath, even as he strokes his cock lightly, nervous.

_Yeha )_

It’s sad that just that much involvement is kind of a turn on, even though he knows it can’t be doing anything for Artem other than offering a bit of empathy. He’s about to send something like ‘well, if you ever fancy experimenting I’m always here’ when his ex-teammate full-on surprises him-

_Miss someone to touch. Miss being toched. Bored my own dick (_

That’s pretty explicit for Artem full stop - he’s extraordinarily coy, most of the time, unusually for a driver. But it’s also really quite close to something approaching sexting.

Ok, so, they have a language and sexuality barrier that might yet prove insurmountable but this is the closest to excitement he’s got in awhile and the fact it’s quite fucked up just makes it more of a turn-on. Artem doesn’t have to think about it being Mitch, after all - this is a pretty safe distance. And if Artem can get that far then, well, Mitch has always been pretty explicit.

_Just want a hand on your dick - or a mouth, can’t wait till the next time someone licks my cock while they’re wanking me off_

He goes back to holding his breath, hand moving a little faster on his dick. One-handed texting is quite difficult, he’s impressed Artem is managing it in a second language.

_O ye_

_Wan t someone too wank me of hard, not the same alone_

Mitch hears himself take a sharp breath. Technically, this is really, really mild - it wouldn’t even register on the scale of filth him and Alex used to exchange but it’s _Artem_ and it’s what he actually wants, which is a weirdly intimate turn on.

Mitch decides to help them both along, seeing as one-handed, sexuality-blurring, EFL texting is pretty heroic already and must be kind of distracting from the business in hand.

_Someone tugging you off really firmly, stroking your balls and just sucking at the tip, getting spit all over your dick so it’s nice and slick and fast_

This is actually sexting. He’s sexting Artem. In a kind of odd, passive way because Artem doesn’t want _Mitch_ to do it (and Mitch isn’t really that convinced he wants to do it to Artem) but they both want _something_ , so.

_Ar u wanking?_

Oh no. Boner-killer express, next stop Awkward City.

_Yeah. Sorry, I can stop._

_No_

_Thats goo d_

_I am to )_

Mitch finds himself smiling fondly at his phone. This is comfortably the weirdest sexual encounter he’s ever had - by text, at least - but there’s something seriously hot about knowing Artem’s getting off, too.

Ok then, no point pretending they’re not doing this. He tries to think what would turn Artem on, that’s reasonably within his sexual spectrum to describe (he is not, he has to sadly admit, totally sure what the appeal of boobs is or indeed, what one would do with them) - blow jobs are pretty safe territory, everyone likes them. He stills his hand on his cock to concentrate, he wants this to be _good,_ he’s got a reputation to uphold..

_Hot mouth on your dick, sucking you off, hands on your thighs to tease you_

_Yes_

_You cum in mouth or on their face?_

Holy shit, Artem - Mitch is actually blushing slightly and he can feel himself grinning at how weirdly filthy this all is, how much they’re crossing seriously weird lines without _actually_ crossing them. Like, they’re just… wanking _at_ each other. By text. But.

_Mouth, if they’re up for it. Or stop them before I come._

 

_Wank myself off, we can both lick it off my fingers._

That might be a bit too… not straight. He’s not sure where that kind of thing stands.

Artem’s reply is too quick-

_You like maked to taste it?_

_Yeah_

_Me to_

Mitch bites his own hand, hearing himself make a really whiny noise he’s not sure he’s ever made before. _Fuck,_ that’s ...intimate. He can imagine Artem blushing slightly, but feeling comfortable telling him. They’ve never made each other anxious - or at least, not for a long time.

This is such a weird thing to be doing - and must be even weirder for Artem. It’s just… friends, telling each other what gets them off. And getting off on it. Which is kind of natural really, he supposes. It certainly feels more comfortable than it ought to. Or maybe he’s just so fucking desperate for someone else to have some input to his sexual frustration he’ll take absolutely anything and damn the consequences.

He shouldn’t leave Artem hanging.

_Make yourself come_

Mitch hesitates but. No fear, Evans.

_And lick it off your hand. I’m going to._

_YEs_

_Race u )_

Mitch realises he’s holding his breath again, hand totally still on his dick, lets out a quiet whine. He puts his phone aside, flops back against the arm of the sofa and works his dick frantically, realising how turned on he is only when the first stroke feels almost painful and like the sweetest relief in the world.

He’s really, really close when his phone pings with something and he knocks it off the coffee table grabbing at it, decides to just fucking ignore it for now and thinks about Artem wanking as he comes all over his hand, harder than he has for ages.

Somewhat dazedly, he wonders if Artem actually will lick it off his own hand. It’s kind of a bit of a disgusting thing to do and he’s really not sure what straight dudes’ speed with spunk is. He’s happy enough to do it, probably might have anyway, lazily sucking his own fingers as he luxuriates a bit in the afterglow, grabbing for his phone again in his free hand.

He nearly chokes on his own fingers when he sees what it is - a picture message from Artem of a tongue - well, it must be Artem’s tongue, logically - licking up his index finger, over what is definitely spunk. Fuck. _Fuck._

He scrabbles his phone around to respond, with the last drop left on his thumb, tries to avoid getting too much of his stubble in the picture, feeling guilty that he’s nowhere near as erotic to Artem as his ex-teammate is to him.

_Good first meeting of Sad Hotel Wank Club._

_We should make them regular?_

He smiles when Artem’s extremely quick reply of ‘yes’ and a lot of ‘)’ comes through. He’s not entirely sure what to call what just happened, other than ‘somewhat desperate’ and ‘really fun.’ Shit, _really_ fun. But then, he’s not exactly opposed to thinking about hot dudes wanking.

He tries to think it through, vaguely remembering from school that this was actually something straight dudes seemed to do together - collectively wanking, that is. Probably not sexting each other pictures of them licking spunk, that might be a bit next level but Artem’s always been very indulgent of Mitch. And possibly a bit submissive, he vaguely remembers from a drunken discussion, so that pretty much explains that.

Thing is, though, Mitch isn’t a straight guy just ...sexting his bro, no homo, two floors apart cus they’re not gay, etc. He’s not really sure if he wants to suck Artem’s dick, maybe only because Artem wouldn’t be into it but it wouldn’t be outside Mitch’s wheelhouse if he did.

He stares at the ceiling for awhile, still sucking on his fingers. He’s almost tempted to text Carlos or someone under the pretense of asking for advice but - and he’s kind of got to be honest with himself here - mostly bragging. Which if ‘sexting a straight guy while they both wank in separate rooms’ is what his bragging rights are these days, he’s gone very weird.

He wouldn’t, anyway, because the reason it was hot was that it was weird and secret and intimate and something just between him and Artem. Which is an odd, relationship-y-but-definitely-not thought.

He huffs a bit, wriggles around to hug himself on the sofa, burrowed into the plush cushioning over the arm. It definitely made him feel less lonely.

\------

He makes the error of going for a run with Sean and Tonio after practice, which turns into a run with Alex and Sergey, somehow, as well. He fakes a cramp halfway round to get a chance to send a pleading text to Artem to come rescue him before he throws himself into the path of a tractor or something.

At least getting roasted for supposedly being unfit is something he _knows_ isn’t true. Whereas being supposedly a miserable bastard is substantially harder to refute. Of course he’s a miserable fucking bastard, what’s he meant to be? Overjoyed?

Artem doesn’t reply, probably busy with something. Which is fair enough, he’s not Mitch’s sadness booty call. Mitch endures the rest of the run, some ribbing after about the faked cramp and then limps back to his hotel room, emotionally speaking.

To his distinct surprise, Artem is sitting on the floor outside his room, smiling sadly at him. “Sorry, I just couldn’t face them.”

Mitch smiles at him genuinely, offers him a hand up as he opens his room door, “It’s cool - sorry, I’m kind of disgusting - are you ok to chill if I shower?”

He doesn’t really know why he’s bothering. They’d experimented with snogging in a way grosser state less than a week ago but Mitch feels like he wants to be presentable to Artem, which is probably a sign that he’s losing his grip on whatever it is he’s supposed to have a grip on, aside from his dick.

He _almost_ has a wank in the shower, to try to convince himself he’s not going to end up horny if they hug but something stops him. Or well, the pathetic hope for some more Sad Hotel Wank Club action in some totally unknown format keeps him weirdly optimistic for something more than just his hand.

He gets dressed in boxers and a shirt, pads into the room to find Artem flicking through the TV channels, sprawled on his bed. Mitch is kind of guiltily glad Artem isn’t on the sofa, which is where he’d ended up sleeping last night after a few more rounds of thinking about what they’d done.

“I love European telly. It’s shit.” Artem looks completely gleeful, “Look at this shit - what the hell is this?”

Mitch laughs at him, crawling onto the bed, “Because Russian telly is great? I saw enough of that, man.”

“When we were in Moscow?” Mitch nods, is surprised by Artem grabbing him up into a wrestling sort of spoon-hug. “Mitch, I really like you.”

“I really like you, too, man.” Mitch doesn’t really know what’s going on but it feels significant, comfortable.

“I don’t know what it would be like without you.” Mitch kind of catches Artem’s garbled meaning - he really needs to learn Russian so they can try having weird conversations the other way round, he feels bad about how much Artem does the heavy lifting in comprehension.

“Mmm, you too.” Mitch snuggles back a bit against Artem. “I don’t really know what we did last night but I really liked it.”

“Me as well.” Artem grips him a little tighter, “I can’t… I don’t think we can fuck.”

Mitch laughs, “No man, I really don’t think we can. But I appreciate the company.”

“You are really hot. Like, if I was going to. Have you ever liked a girl?” Mitch wriggles a bit, he hates this question.

“I don’t know? Not really. I kind of tried to fancy Carlos’ sister for a bit.” Artem laughs behind him.

“Shame. I thought maybe a three thing.” Mitch laughs at him, swiping behind him to hit Artem - jesus, they can’t even get people to get off with one of them, let alone both.

“I like the sad wank company. Like, if you’re ok with it.” Artem catches on to Mitch’s morose tone and this has always been his favourite thing about his ex-teammate, he’s incredibly sweet. Hopelessly so, Mitch used to worry he was going to get eaten by motorsport but somehow Artem’s pretty resilient to it all.

Artem just hugs him closer and he’s not holding Mitch like someone else, or trying to be Alex, it’s the dorky way they’ve always cuddled, all tangle and comfort.”If we watch straight porn there’s one for each of us?”

And that’s…. That shouldn’t be a really nice idea - and they’re gonna have to be seriously fastidious about which porn they pick but that sounds horribly good. “You’re a really weird guy Artem, it’s what I like about you.”


	3. three feet deep, sinking in the shallow end (Mitch/Alex)

1.

Alex presses his cheek against Mitch’s stomach, feeling him breathe, panting his way through an orgasmic come-down, his fingers still stroking through Alex’s hair.

Mitch is quiet like this, shy, Alex likes it. The taste of Mitch in his mouth is horrible and satisfying - he doesn’t do this sort of thing. He doesn’t fuck boys in hotel rooms and not tell his girlfriend and send filthy text messages to Mitch while he’s telling her he’s got a headache.

He’s got butterflies in his stomach from more than just arousal or even the illicit way they’re hooking up. He isn’t half as worried about getting caught as he is about making sure this continues, that he gets more of Mitch, gets to take everything, give everything back.

“Ace,” Mitch is tugging on his hair, “come up here.”

Scrambling up the bed makes him almost nervous, half-stumbling on his hands and knees as Mitch drags him into a kiss, then pushes him back to curl his body around Alex’s. Every inch of skin feels so good, pressed together and Alex is excited just to touch, be touched, by the idea of Mitch wanting him.

Mitch is staring at him, tracing patterns on Alex’s arm with his fingertips and looking softly happy. Alex panics, has to hide his face in Mitch’s hair for a second - he’s got a fucking _crush_ this is so out of control.

2.

“Who’s Mitch?”

Fuck. His heart feels like it’s flooded with ice - she’s got his phone in her hand and looks like she’s about to throw it at him.

“Mitch Evans, races in GP2 - you met him at Silverstone, why?” His voice sounds too steady for the way his heart is thumping.

“Oh.” She looks confused, holds his phone out to him, “Why’s he sent you _that?”_

Alex checks the preview - thank fuck, it wasn’t unlocked.

_Hey, you better be keeping that promise - so hard just thinking about getting my dick in that ass._

Alex tries to keep his face neutral, puzzled, not desperately fond, not pining away the days before he sees Mitch next and yes, of course he’s going to let Mitch fuck him, he’s never wanted anything more. God.

“Err. Maybe he knows a girl Alex?” She suddenly laughs, all the tension broken.

“Oh my god, he’s fucking drunk dialling you by accident? The little Australian one, right?” Alex forces himself to stick the phone in his pocket, wrap his arms round her, laugh with her and try to keep the edge of hysteria out of his voice.

“Yes - well, Kiwi - but yeah.” His heart is still thumping, she misinterprets it - at least he’s not going to have any problem getting hard.

“Sorry, I just. You’re away so much and I thought for a second it was… Nevermind, let’s go to bed.” He should feel really guilty about this. Just because he’s side-stepped and not technically lied doesn’t mean he’s doing nothing wrong - he’s doing _everything_ wrong and it feels so good there’s absolutely no chance he’s going to stop. He couldn’t even if it felt bad, at this point.

He decides to say it whilst it’s still true.

“Yeah, I’m not getting my arse fucked by Mitch Evans, don’t worry.” God, he really hopes he is soon, though. Or just getting his cock back in Mitch. Being close to Mitch, tumbling into hotel rooms and fucking in showers and feeling hard muscle against his own.

If he tugs on her hair a little more than usual, is a bit keener about anal then he normally lets himself be, then she doesn’t notice. He really doesn’t intend to hurt her, does care about her -  happy and sated, sleeping wrapped against his side as he texts Mitch back later.

3.

He’s still not used to the wet feeling, after. Gets self-conscious as soon as Mitch pulls out, blushes and feels shocked at himself remembering how shameless he was being seconds before.

Until Mitch cuddles up around him, hums at him and kisses and whispers away everything he’s worrying about, makes him feel like he might be the most special person in the world. Alex hadn’t been sure he’d like it, although it was something he wanted to do with Mitch but now he’s felt the Kiwi inside him he never wants to let anyone else in.

Which is the kind of soppy shit he doesn’t necessarily actually believe but feels right, in the moments after. Before they’ll go and shower together and Mitch will precariously stand on tiptoe to wash his hair, clean him all over in the most intimate way.

Alex doesn’t get pampered much, doesn’t really crave it - he likes pushing himself, feeling burnt out and exhausted and tough. But it turns out there are some things that make him feel so loved, so open-hearted that he wants to be reassured, looked after. It’s not exactly submission but he likes being lavished by Mitch, having time together as something more than fucking - since it’s not like he can take him out for a romantic meal or bring him as a date to a party or whatever.

And then they can wrestle on the already-messy bed, flailing at each other in fluffy hotel dressing gowns until they really _have_ to leave and go back to remembering not to touch each other. Not to kiss Mitch when he’s proud of him or grab him and fuck any pain the weekend’s about to bring away.

It makes Alex’s heart feel like it’s about to stop - he’s so totally, totally screwed.

4.

Pierre catches them.

It was probably always going to be him - although Alex had thought Artem had clocked it awhile back, appreciated his feigned ignorance.

There’s no question what they’re doing: Mitch is straddling Alex’s lap - or was, he’s now awkwardly got one leg half on Alex’s knees, standing on the other when he tried to scramble away. Either way their hair is messed up, Alex is topless and Mitch’s subsiding erection is still horribly visible in those shorts.

“I - what. You?” Pierre looks completely gobsmacked, which is probably fair enough since as far as Alex’s teammate knows, he’s contemplating the merits of marrying his girlfriend or waiting for a bit. The Frenchman swallows, comes the rest of the way through the door and shuts it behind him. “How long?”

Alex can _see_ Mitch is about to make a joke about his dick, stops him by tugging him back into his lap, possessive and demanding. No one is taking Mitch from him, not even Pierre. “Awhile. We can’t tell anyone, obviously.”

“I did not know.” Pierre’s eyes are wide still, shocked and clearly trying not to drink in any of the details about them whilst simultaneously unable to stop looking.

“Please don’t say anything?” Because there are things they both want more than being able to hold hands with each other in public - Alex is thinking about the Williams uniform he’s putting on in a few days time, the one Mitch loves ripping off him.

Pierre shakes his head and Alex trusts him. Enough to drag Mitch closer to him, suddenly cold where his bare skin is exposed.

“Hey,” Mitch is looking at him very intensely, body tense like he’s struggling between fight or flight, almost trembling with the stress of it. There have always been rumours about Mitch, he’s always denied them - as far as Alex knows, he’s the only one Mitch has ever gone for. Small, pretty and a bit of an outsider was a bad combination to have ‘gay’ (or whatever - he knows Mitch has been with girls) added to.

This isn’t something Mitch can laugh his way out of. This is where Alex has to step up.

Pierre breaks the tension “What about Maria?”

Alex grimaces, can’t look at Mitch for a second. “I broke up with her a month ago.”

“But you said…” Pierre looks really confused now, “I thought you were going to propose?”

 _Not to her,_ Alex’s brain helpfully supplies as a taunt. He shakes his head, not sure he trusts himself to speak - it was the right thing to do, he’d known he should’ve done it ages ago but _god_ it was horrible. He’d tried to think up convincing reasons, couldn’t really give her any, in the end, other than that he was awful.

Ever since then there’s been a few sharp text messages and just Mitch, which was getting so perfect.

“What, really?” Mitch is staring at him still - Alex probably should have told him but he’d tried never to mention her at all for so long.

He sounds hoarse when he replies, “Yeah. It wasn’t right.”

Mitch looks like he’s completely forgotten Pierre’s in the room, let alone that they’ve just been discovered, that he’s straddling Alex’s lap, “What, for me?”

“Yeah, obviously.” Alex is trying to do something comforting without it being too obscene, rubbing his thumbs over the sides of Mitch’s waist, where he’s holding him.

Mitch doesn’t say anything to that, makes a slightly surprised noise.

“ _Please_ don’t tell anyone.” Alex knows Pierre is tightly wound with secrets of his own, that he’d never give away anything until he had to use it. And he doesn’t think there’s any reason he’d ever have to use this, which is an uneasy sort of security but more than would be there with some people.

“I wont… I won’t. Fuck.” Pierre still looks shocked, although it’s subsiding into a slightly less theatrical expression. “Shit, I’ll go.”

“Thank you.” Alex realises he should say it, while his teammate’s still scrabbling with the door, before he smiles at them apologetically and leaves so quickly Alex is half surprised he doesn’t catch his fingers in the hinge or something.

The second the door is closed, Mitch kisses him so hard he feels like he might asphyxiate, caught between breaths. Someone could still walk in any second, this is a really stupid thing to do but fuck - he _needs_ him, needs to know the-thing-that-is-them is still alive, after that near miss, the frozen-time horror of a shunt.

Mitch is hot and eager and Alex can’t help yanking down his shorts, opening his own flies and fucking him there, tight against each other.

5.

It’s a shitshow of a season. But there’s next year. And in the time in between he’s got a world of bronze skin and five days in Abu Dhabi to map out every inch.

“Do you think we can make it work?” Mitch is sprawled on his back, in the centre of the bed, drowsily arranged in such an awkward configuration Alex is somehow half-falling off the super king mattress to lie next to him, their hands interlinked.

Alex doesn’t know if he’s talking about GP2, them, racing, life or - to be fair - the air conditioning, which has been steadily winding down its efforts but neither of them wants to put on clothes long enough for someone to come and fix it. He rolls over to look Mitch in the face, work out if he’s in a fatalistic mood or hoping for something.

“If we can get this far then - yeah, sure.” He’s fairly sure it’s not the aircon.

“Mmm. You’re good, Ace, you deserve something better.” Now Alex really _isn’t_ sure if he’s talking about racing or not but just in case, because - and he hides this quite well but Alex has slowly worked it out - Mitch is a fucking idiot sometimes.

Alex rolls over him, pushes their hot skin together “You’re an idiot. Who deserves everything.”

“You gonna give it to me, Ace?” Mitch is laughing at him but not completely, that deep-buried insecurity there.

“I’m going to fucking try, I swear.” Alex kisses him, pressing as much of them together as possible, trying to make Mitch feel how much he fucking wants to, how much he’s not even just doing this for himself anymore - if he has been for ages.

6.

He’s got so used to Mitch stretched out, golden, in sunbeams and across Alex’s thick duvet, languid and positive and kissing his own fears about the year ahead away. So used he’s forgotten what angry Mitch looks like, the way he curls in on himself, hateful, when he’s frustrated and stressed.

It’s almost frightening - he isn’t sure how to comfort or touch him, suddenly. Not when he’s guiltily champagne-soaked, hovering nervously by the bed where Mitch is firmly glued to his phone.

“I’m going to… shower and things?” He’s already rolled the winner’s cap up and stuck it in his luggage, edged the silverware somewhere subtle - he was a bit surprised to find Mitch in his room, had assumed he’d go to lick his wounds with Sean.

Mitch looks up, shaken out of his reverie suddenly and his expression immediately softening, “Shit, sorry - shit, we should order champagne. You were amazing, Ace.”

“What?” Alex can’t stop himself, emotional whiplash robbing him of the ability to respond sensibly

“You won, remember? C’mon, fuck me in the shower.” Mitch is already dragging him towards the bathroom before Alex can get his brain going again.

“You’re not angry?” Mitch gives him the most withering look he’s ever experienced.

“Of course I’m fucking angry - I’m still happy for _you._ ” And he looks like he means it. Alex feels some weird, almost patronising burst of love and pride and want like his heart’s going squeeze his lungs out of his chest. Or maybe something less disgustingly biological than that - but this love has g-force, whatever else.

They do fuck in the shower. And they do order champagne. Alex has weird thoughts about honeymoon suites, cuddling Mitch on the balcony.

7.

Sergey catches them this time. Alex doesn’t even give a shit anymore, frankly.

What had started well has largely turned to shit, Mitch has decided he’s leaving GP2 and Alex can’t blame him and he’s watching everything he’s worked for at Williams burn in a pile of cash.

He gets the feeling Mitch doesn’t care either, when he growls “Fuck _off,_ Serg” without letting go of Alex, without unhooking his legs from his waist.

Sergey doesn’t say anything at all, looks at them hard but not with the shock that Pierre did. There’s something knowing about his expression, something hauntedly familiar. Alex honestly doesn’t care if he tells, at that moment - but thinks he probably won’t, suddenly has a flash of the way Ollie looks at Sergey sometimes.

As soon as the door closes, he fucks Mitch harder, doesn’t bother putting his hand over his mouth, lets him whine and moan and shout the place down. They can take everything but they can’t take Mitch, take this from him. From them.

8.

Sergey never talks about it, that Alex gets to hear about at least. But he thinks it’s quite deliberate that he walks in on him and Ollie in a far less compromising position but definitely holding hands across a table. Unexpected but ok, then, that answers anything that could have made things even worse than they are.

Part of him wishes Sergey had just gone to the press. Except he doesn’t because they both need new rides and that is not going to help, at all. Which is stupid - he went to a gay wedding a few weekends ago, some distant cousin who’d got in touch via Facebook and it was beautiful and loving and he’d burned with suppressed pride and jealousy.

He’s started getting angry at stuff on the news. If they’ve got to be in different categories - and it seems certain, Mitch determined to go to Formula E, Alex’s options narrowing by the second - then why the fuck can’t he turn up and cheer on his fucking long-term boyfriend and kiss him fresh off the podium, expect Mitch there to fall in his arms if he wins?

Mitch can tell he’s brooding - Alex has had it gently pointed out to him by the Kiwi that his body language is as subtle as a brick through a window. “What’s up, Ace? And would a blow job make it feel better?”

“I don’t want a blow job - well, I do. But I want to hold hands with you in public afterwards.” Those huge, dark, hawkish eyes stare down at him intensely, from where Mitch is kneeling over him on the sofa. Alex feels pathetic, now he’s said it - they’ve never talked about this, except in terms of anxiety, about who might see what.

“Hey.” Mitch gets even closer to his face, looking him straight in the eye now, “We could. It’s a big decision but we could.”

“I’ve never been worried about getting caught, I’ve only ever worried about losing you. I don’t want us to be so good at hiding it we can’t find it ourselves.”

It comes out more elegant, thoughtful than he expected himself to be. But that’s what he’s been thinking - when you find a safe place for something and never see it again, find it years down the line and it’s a fond memory and he can’t _bear_ that. Not after all this. Something good has to have come out of it all.

Mitch nods quickly, almost like he’s trying to clear his own head. “I am worried. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t.”

They take it slowly - first by not getting out of the flat for another three hours, two blowjobs and one very satisfying shower fuck. Then by just trying standing slightly closer to each other, working up to touching hands in a crowded department store. Unlearning instinct is hard.

Alex tells his dad by phone, just on the offchance it somehow hits the press otherwise. The conversation goes better than expected.

9.

He’s frantically happy for Mitch - Alex has other options floating, he’s just not taking them up until that final, awful confirmation he’s not getting the big boy ride is signed and done. Even if he didn’t, he’d be happy, bursting with pride to see Mitch in that race suit.

He realises how Mitch must have felt about the Wiliams one that he tries not to think too hard about, right now. It’s fucking hot watching someone you love get something they want.

Alex gets Mitch against a wall, sinks to his knees and swallows his cock the way he knows he likes. Not too much tongue, definitely no teeth, just sucking and a rhythm, the odd flat lick to make him whine and fist his fingers into Alex’s hair.

He never would have expected to like sucking cock but then, he’d never really expected to like fucking his friend, let alone fall so fucking stupidly in love with him.

“I told the team.”

Alex has to pull back for a second to stare up at Mitch and he knows he must look totally obscene, blushed pink from the effort and mouth dripping with saliva, “what?”

“I told them about us. Well - not who you are, not yet, I wanted to ask - but that you’re a man who’s a driver. They don’t have a problem with it. It was what made me totally sure.”

Alex feels like he’s about to cry with happiness, smiles quickly and chokes himself on Mitch’s cock instead, to jolt himself back to the present.

Mitch was always braver than him. He needs to tell Wurz to look at more interesting places for him.

10.

They have more chapters to write. More laps to go. They’re an endurance race not a sprint, in the end.

Alex tries not to think too hard about the -frankly, astounding- reliability record they have before his shitty little metaphor distracts him from the feel of Mitch’s cock brushing everything that feels good inside him.

They’ve invented their own formula and it’s fuelled by this.  



End file.
